Decoder

While viewing the pessimistic, yet poetic German dystopian avant-garde science fiction film Decoder (1984) - directed by Muscha and written/produced by Klaus Maeck - one gets to experience the greatest work of aesthetic terrorism ever committed to low-grade celluloid. The film was heavily inspired by the subversive meta-political cut-up theories of William S. Burroughs, so it is fitting that Decoder writer Klaus Maeck would once again pay tribute to the Beat guru by directing the spoken word collage documentary William S. Burroughs: Commissioner of Sewers (1991). Taking inspiration from his best friend Brion Gysin, Burroughs began experimenting with cut-ups, henceforth cutting-up and re-structuring everything from his writing to tape-recorded audio tapes (comprised of everything from authoritarian voices to noises in the street) while living at the Beat Hotel in 1960. The excessively pessimistic and anarchically individualistic Burroughs once stated about Gysin, "Brion Gysin was the only man I ever respected," so it is no surprise that the Beat writer would take his friend's odd experiments very seriously. Both Burroughs and Gysin were assisted by mathematician and scientist Ian Sommerville. Burroughs would later pay tribute to Sommerville for his efforts by creating a character modeled after the Beat technician named “Subliminal Kid” that is featured in the cut-up novels Nova Express and The Ticket That Exploded. Burroughs' cut-up experiments were also inspired by unconventional quasi-scientific instruments, including wacky Marxist psychoanalyst Wilhelm Reich’s Orgone Accumulator and The Church of Scientology’s E-Meter. With his tape-recorded cut-up experiments, Burroughs felt he had the power to use auditory aesthetic terrorism as a weapon to counter government propaganda, and even cause anti-government riots. In Klaus Maeck’s ingenious experimental work Decoder, a young “noise-freak” named F.M. experiments with anti-Muzak in an attempt to destroy corporate (brainwashing) muzak that is played at an imperial and Americanized fast food chain called H. Burgers. H. Burgers advertises that they “serve 100% German beef” and they have an employee army of fascistic H-Burger Youth. F.M. is disturbed by the fact that the Muzak played at H-Burger hypnotizes customers, thus turning them into loyal consuming automatons.  Of course, in Decoder - muzak (mood altering music) is better than music - but muzak of the corporate persuasion is ultimately dehumanizing and downright evil.

 

In an interview featured in the book Naked Lens: Beat Cinema written by Jack Sargeant, Decoder writer Klaus Maeck stated the following regarding William S. Burroughs in an interview conducted by the author, “Be aware that for Germans it is not always easy to understand his American accent, even if you do speak English. And so many people here do not understand his humor, which is what makes him so funny and lovable.” Of course, your typical American would also be at a loss to understand the absurdist humor and non-linear writings of William S. Burroughs. Naturally, Burroughs' greatest admirers are fellow artists who found much inspiration and insight in the Beat writer's vast collection of works. In Decoder, the cast of actors (most being non-actors) is made up of various artist who were inspired by the Beat guru in one way or another. The main protagonist of Decoder, F.M., is played by F.M. Einheit (also known as Mufti) - the real-life musician best known for contributing his percussion talents to the German post-industrial group Einstürzende Neubauten. F.M.’s beautiful girlfriend Christiana is played by Christiane F. – the real-life best-selling author and ex-junkie/ex-prostitute who wrote the gritty autobiographical book "Christiane F. - Wir Kinder vom Bahnhof Zoo (1981)" - which was later adapted into a notable film of the same name. Also, Genesis P-Orridge - the pioneering industrial/post-industrial frontman (Throbbing Gristle and Psychic TV) and real-life friend of William S. Burroughs - plays (during his pre-tranny days) an occult muzak High Priest in Decoder. The only “real” actor featured in Decoder is William Rice - who plays Jager - a hit man sent out by an evil Muzak corporation to kill E.M.. Although an eclectic and influential avant-garde artist who contributed much to the art scene in East Village, NYC during a number of decades, Bill Rice is probably best known in the cinema world for playing himself in the segment “Champagne” featured in Jim Jarmusch’s Coffee and Cigarettes (2003). Last but certainly not least, William S. Burroughs plays a phantom shopkeeper in Decoder who gives E.M. a dismantled machine during one of his psychedelic lucid dreams. To say the least, Decoder features an all-star cast of real-life aesthetic terrorists that also happen to be the artistic heirs of William S. Burroughs.

Like Slava Tsukerman's Liquid Sky (1982) and Agustí Villaronga's In a Glass Cage (1987), Decoder is a totally audacious libertine art house film with an uncompromisingly distinct aesthetic that could have only been conceived during the ultra-materialistic dystopian nightmare era of the 1980s. Also like both Liquid Sky and In a Glass Cage - Decoder is a work of cinematic poetry - where the aesthetic integrity of the film is more important than the plot. Not to say that the plot of Decoder is irrelevant (it was inspired by the mind of William S. Burroughs after all!), but that the film’s plot is secondary to the alluring and mood-altering imagery of the film. Like a novel by William S. Burroughs, specific scenes of Decoder will leave a deeper impression on the viewer than the fairly uninvolved (yet meta-politically inspirational) plot. In fact, after initially watching Decoder, most people will have a difficult time articulating the plot of the film, but, of course, certain scenes in the film will indubitably stick out in their minds; whether the viewer likes it or not. Despite being a film about the power of magickal sounds and spellbinding muzak; Decoder - a virtual cinematic kaleidoscope - is ultimately a visual affair that transports the viewer to an aesthetically pleasing Teutonic post-industrial wasteland - where colors speak louder than words and where a person’s physical appearance reveals the most about a person's character. In the world of Decoder, German children dress up in Wehrmacht uniforms while playing their favorite arcade war games and new wave technocratic stormtroopers militantly roam the nuclear-rainbow-colored streets.  Instead of embracing the Blood and Soil ideology of the Third Reich, the thoroughly Americanized post-WW2 German populous featured in the film robotically live for microchips and desolate sidewalk strips. For those individuals who have always wondered what a William S. Burroughs-inspired punk rock nightmare would be like, Decoder is probably the only film that offers such a delectable absurdist, albeit fanciful, cinematic affair. While watching Decoder, I couldn't help but wonder what the film would be like under the influence of a dreamachine (which makes an appearance in the film); a stroboscopic devise that produces visual-stimuli (a "drug-less" psychedelic high) for the viewer through its hypnotic flicker, which was invented by Brion Gysin, William S. Burroughs, and Ian Sommerville ; the three men that also inspired Decoder. 

Aesthetically, Decoder owes some credit to the mostly forgotten no-budget “para-punk/no wave” films that were made in New York City during the late 1970s. The cinematographer behind Decoder, Johanna Heer, worked on the para-punk film Subway Riders (also featuring Bill Rice) directed by Amos Poe. In comparison to the extremely amateurish and often times improvised para-punk films, Decoder received much better funding (most of which came from West German government subsidies including "Hamburg’s Film Funds" and "Kuratorium Junger Deutscher Film") and consequently grandeur productions values. It should also be noted that the recently deceased industrial/post-industrial musician Peter ‘Sleazy’ Christopherson (Throbbing Gristle, Coil) played an imperative part in the production of Decoder by operating a video camera that was used to capture the cameos performances given by Genesis P-Orridge and William S. Burroughs in the film.  Although P-Orridge's and Burroughs' appearances are brief in Decoder, they add a certain celebrity and character to the work that is vital to the film's artistic credibility.  As one can expect from a film featuring pioneering industrial muzak-makers, Decoder is equipped with a complimentary soundtrack featuring tracks from such notable muzak groups as Soft Cell and Psychic TV. Indeed, Decoder is a wonderful work that travels through the meta-political heaven and hell (and everywhere in between) of the muzak world - a magickal and marvelous apocalyptic microcosmos where dream and reality are virtually one in the same - thus it is no surprise that the film is arguably the greatest phantasmagorical dystopian cinematic dream ever created. When it comes to the sub-genre of sci-fi-cyber-punk sinema, Decoder is certainly the greatest and most original of its kind (sorry Japan!).  It is certainly not a coincidence that Germany and Japan - the two axis nations that were defeated in the second world war; literally the most tragic and deadly military conflict in human history - have been at the forefront of creating the most gloomy, pessimistic, and perverted films that the world has ever known.

William S. Burroughs, "Anyone with a tape recorder controlling the soundtrack can influence and create events." (The Invisible Generation, 1966)

 Occult Muzak High Priest (Genesis P-orridge) in Decoder, "Information is like a bank,
our job is to rob that bank."

Out of all the characters featured in Decoder, sexy Christiane F. is easily the most peculiar. What makes Christiane so different from the rest of the characters in the film is that she mostly lives in her own escapist world of the organic - where technology is disdained and frogs are godly. Apparently, the real-life Christiane F. is also an introverted lady who finds happiness and comfort in the company of her loyal pet frogs. Of course, Christiane F. is incapable of manipulating modern reality like her noise-freak boyfriend due to her uncompromising aversion to technology. When bickering with E.M., Christiane quips after mentioning the unoriginality of his noise-terrorist activities, “Even the Gestapo used music to make people shit to death.” On top of being a linguistically eloquent lady, Christiane F. is also the most beautiful person featured in Decoder, despite her ridiculous punk rock wardrobe, cyber-punk hairdo, and atrocious personality. By ignoring technology, Christiane F. has only confirmed the victory of globalist corporations, therefore, she hates technology in vain; whether she acknowledges it or not. Although Christiane's anti-technocratic sentiments are admirable, she offers nothing in the way of practical solutions (aside from effortlessly cock-teasing hit man Jager) for correcting her grievances, but, instead, verbally assaults her boyfriend; a proactive man who selflessly risks his life for the good of his technologically-enslaved nation. Thus, Christiane - an armchair revolutionary of the worst kind, with a unflattering passive slave-morality to boot - is an excellent example as to how one should not react (escapism and mere negative criticism) when battling corporate terror. E.M., on the other hand - has the right idea - as he has made an effort to learn the corporate enemy's subliminal techniques and cryptic-strategies, henceforth somewhat successfully battling corporate muzak with his subversive anti-muzak.

Decoder Soundtrack featuring songs from Einstürzende Neubauten, Soft Cell, E.M., and Psychic TV 

The cut-up novels of William S. Burroughs and the revolutionary anti-technocratic film Decoder were certainly ahead of their respective times, as both ambitious experiments are more relevant today than when they were originally released. It is no mistake that scenes from Fritz Lang’s futuristic dystopian sci-fi film Metropolis (1927)  appear in Decoder, as both German films foretold the progressive enslavement and collective homogenization of man via technology and international capitalist monopolies.  Man may have created the machine in a feeble attempt to become god, but now the machine controls man and man is left with a godless spiritual void that will most likely never be organically fulfilled. It should be noted that most of the key points predicted by German philosopher Oswald Spengler (whose works were a major influence on William S. Burroughs' worldview) in his work Man and Technics: A Contribution to a Philosophy of life (1931) – a short, but insightful book that poetically illustrates man’s technological deracination from nature and inevitable dependence on manmade machines – have unfortunately come true.  Although Decoder was released over a quarter-century ago during the Orwellian year of 1984, war fought through abstract and subliminal technology has only become even more relevant and inorganically sophisticated - as one can engage in cyber-wars on the internet from the comfort of a personal home computer.  Now the layman can cheaply operate his own international digital television channel via YouTube, as well as manage a worldwide digital newspaper via a blog/website (like this one!).  For the more criminally-minded, one can attack government computers, steal a person's identity, and illegally appropriate money as an online hacker from any place in the world. If you think William S. Burroughs was merely a degenerate junkie-queer writer, it is about time you open your eyes and unplug your ears, and watch Decoder; a film that clearly demonstrates as to why the Beat writer lived by Hassan I Sabbah’s supposed last words, “Nothing is true – Everything is Permitted.”

-Ty E

Society

In the underrated body horror film Society (1989), protagonist Bill Whitney is asked by a thoroughly agitated and sarcastic cop after reporting the mysterious brutal death of his poindexterish friend Petrie, “is it really that hard being rich.” Indeed, not only is being rich an oddly burdensome lifestyle for emotionally lonesome Billy Boy, but he is also the black sheep of an incestuous family that shamelessly indulges in hedonistic self-worship and a deleterious form of decadence.  During the beginning of Society, Bill mentions to his therapist that he has an irrational fear of his family and community, thus suspecting that he was adopted.  Right from the onset of the film, it is quite apparent that Bill is totally out of sync with his community's ostensibly sinister collective unconscious. As Society progresses, Billy becomes increasingly dismayed and extremely paranoid as he hazardously uncovers the wicked and depraved infrastructure of a hidden network of debauched families that make up the upper-class society that he reluctantly belongs to. Society was created in the late 1980s, a culturally bankrupt time when preppies males felt that mullets were the height of culturally refined hairstyles and preppy women wore their hair in such a disheveled manner that they looked like they just finished an all-night orgy. Society was directed by Brian Yuzna, a Filipino-American horror hack best known by fans of the genre as the producer of Stuart Gordon’s H.P. Lovecraft adaptations Re-Animator (1985) and From Beyond (1986), as well as for directing/producing the final two films in the Re-Animator trilogy. Both Brian Yuzna and his pal Stuart Gordon have a special talent for turning legendary American horror writer H.P. Lovecraft’s stories into shallow pseudo-erotic schlock pieces that even the most zombified of horror fans can digest without too much mental confusion.  Don't get me wrong, I enjoy the Re-Animator films (or at least the first two) as much as the next horror fan, but they are a total insult to Lovecraft's sagely Spenglerian horror tales. That being said, I must admit that I was extremely surprised by the quality of Yuzna’s directorial debut Society, an audacious and ambitious work that one does not usually expect from the excessively repetitive and often times exceedingly stagnant horror genre. In fact, I can say without the slightest hesitation that I found Society to be better than all three films in the overrated Re-Animator series combined. 

Society protagonist Bill Whitney is a handsome (despite his mullet) and athletic high school student who has it all, even while lacking the absolute robotic snobbery often times associated with someone of his distinguished pedigree. When Bill’s sister’s ex-boyfriend David Blanchard reveals to him an audio tape featuring the voices of his entire family as they participate in an incestuous orgy and murder for pleasure, the high school student finally has enough evidence to support his paranoid suspicions regarding the ambiguously peculiar nature of his family. After all, Bill walks in on his completely nude sister showering and for whatever reason, her boobs somehow managed to reposition themselves on her backside. The first hour or so of Society is like a mix between an artificial (but entertaining) Hitchcockian/De Palma-style murder mystery and an episode of The Twilight Zone directed by a crackhead horror fiend. The final half-hour of Society morphs into a blackest-of-black horror comedy. In fact, the concluding half-hour of Society reminded me of a pleasant unruly mix between David Cronenberg’s adaptation of William S. Burrough's Naked Lunch, John Carpenter’s They Live, and Stanley Kubrick’s Eyes Wide Shut.  Of course, Society predates both Naked Lunch and Eyes Wide Shut and was made only a year after They Live, thus Yuzna's film seems to be a totally original and groundbreaking work. For those individuals interested in unholy conspiracy theories about reptilian bloodlines and mutant New Order elites, Society will be a deranged, yet delectable cinematic treat. A member of the debased millionaires featured in the film states the following to a certain underclassman (that will go unnamed) in the film, “You’re a different race from us. A different species. A different class. You’re not one of us!” Due to their inclusive inbred bloodlines, the upperclassman of Society can perform royally absurd feats, such as relocating their faces on their asses, as we as communally (with flesh to flesh) devouring the low-grade blood and meat of terrified proletarians. To say the least, you will be hard pressed to find another “horror” film like Society that features an undeniably charismatic, yet chilling royal occult army of quasi-cannibals and über-sadistic upper-class degenerates.

 If the totally hypocritical anti-bourgeois bourgeois economist/philosopher Karl Marx were alive today, Society - an astute work that unconventionally, yet successfully combines class satire with wacky bodily dismemberment - would most likely be his favorite horror film. Unlike George A. Romero’s Living Dead films, Society does not superficially wallow in an infantile leftist socio-political subtext that immediately wears thin. Also, unlike Romero’s Living Dead films, the gut-eating antagonists of Society are cunning, yet ultimately entertaining villains whose disguised motives keep the viewer guessing until the film’s gore-gurgling end. To be quite honest, I expected Society to be another overrated and ultimately retarded horror flick, but nothing could be further from the truth. Instead, I found Society to be a wildly invigorating and criminally underrated horror film that makes most heralded masterworks of the genre seem intellectually and creatively bankrupt by comparison. The rich families featured in Society reminded me of the hyper-inbred Rothschild banking dynasty and their associate families (like the Rockefellers and the Schiffs), as no other family in human history has been responsible for so many deaths and wars around the world. As Billy is told by his therapist Dr. Cleveland, “Didn’t you know Billy boy? The rich have always sucked off low-class shit like you.” Indeed, Society is a delightful and diverting carnivalesque cinematic portrait composed of ultra-pretentious upperclassmen who sportfully engage in hunting and shunting members of the untermensch working-class non-society just for the mere aristocratic pleasure.  Stephen Biro (owner of Unearthed Films) apparently wrote a script for a Society sequel entitled Society 2: Body Modification, but it is now (apparently) an aborted project.  Upon first hearing about the sequel project, it seemed like a cinematically appetizing possibility, but now I am glad the project is dead, as such a work would most likely by a crude insult to the original film.  Hopefully, the audaciously idiosyncratic film Society will one day earn the prestige that is justly deserves from the Sinema world.

-Ty E

The Last Frankenstein

  

Fresh off my acquisition with the incredible The Man Who Stole the Sun, I hopped right back onto similar terrain with Takeshi Kawamura's The Last Frankenstein, a film I have been encouraging myself to watch for some time but only recently attaching subtitles. Taking the bare blueprints of Mary Shelley's Frankenstein, Kawamura, an avant-garde playwright (supposedly wrote the screenplay for a similarly take on classic horror - My Soul is Slashed), took a great deal of fantastical liberties with the progress of a manmade ... man. In The Last Frankenstein, a science teacher named Sarusawa continues to mourn the death of his wife, victim of suicide, and is forced to adapt to a way of life with his telekinetic daughter, Mai. The fragile bond the two share and the city are thrown into turmoil once the recent rash of suicides have been scientifically linked to a disease that is spreading - an epidemic of persuasive death. Seeking out Dr. Aleo, a mad genius whose philosophies of the continuation of our species involve creating, from scratch, new super-humans and forcing them to copulate, Sarusawa hopes that his twisted mind can bring the eventual fall of man to a halt. The Last Frankenstein, if one thing, is certainly Japan's own. Taking post-modernism and Western influence into account, Kawamura has been crafting subversive stage plays using these similar aesthetics of J-culture and Western persuasion since the 80s, The Last Frankenstein being an earlier theatrical production of his own design. For reasons he saw fit, perhaps due to the epic apocalypse within, a feature length film was made.

Opening on Moonlight Sonata, The Last Frankenstein establishes itself as a film that has intentions to move, which surprisingly, it does. Even the avant-garde absurdist nature of Kawamura's lovechild never gets in the way of a larger effect on the humanity of the viewers. The warnings came early with the appearance of various strings of "suicide clubs" that crept along the city streets simply chanting "death" to the point of irrepressible audible meltdown. To understand the very fractured way of life expressly lead by Sarusawa, one must realize the burden left on him by his wife's suicide. Certainly a selfish act, or was it? With word that the suicides can be linked to a disease, a bodily manifestation of a virus leading one to take their own life, surely his wife couldn't have carried this same bug, or could she? Carrier, perhaps - This question and more are asked very subtly by director Kawamura. Never is it stated but always does it resonate. The pure melancholy of it all achieves a far greater emotional impact than more than half of engaging international cinema past millennium. A leading intellectual on the school board mentions the mad Dr. Aleo and reassures Kawamura of Aleo's notoriety. Upon leaving his study, a gunshot rings through the hallway causing Sarusawa to pause, drop the collected works of Aleo, and sprint back into the room, only to find an apology letter and brain matter on mahogany. This is just one example of how the collected effect of The Last Frankenstein ranges from humorous to frightening. Witnessing a hunchbacked assistant prowl the streets at night, in order to kidnap women, Sarusawa gives chase to the hissing abomination. This eventually results in Sarusawa's extended stay at Dr. Aleo's castle, which, more or less, is the near death experience for The Last Frankenstein.

Here lies my only problem with The Last Frankenstein. Originally conceived as a theatrical stage play in 1986, the filmic rendition of Kawamura's inspired reaction to increasing Japanese suicide left him three separate acts, each with their great strengths. The first act, discovery of the death religion, bears a great weight on human empathy. Staying silly, but not too silly; builds up to a boiling confrontation with death, eventual, of course. The second act stays strong with the impending doom of complete self-annihilation of, not just Japanese culture, but the world. Balancing both comedy and tragedy, the second act is the strongest of all. The third act finds itself around an hour and a half into the feature with Sarusawa's stay welcomed and his daughter being used in the creation of the creatures. Romance is fleeting and the script gets flighty. Balance is the main issue I have with the finale. The Last Frankenstein's final moments toss out recognition of previous events. In fact, the suicide virus is mentioned briefly, as Aleo refuses to help humankind, rather, let them die out in order to kick-start a new race, and the cult only returns in one swift scene and disappears entirely from the film. For spending the better half of an hour on such tragic events, only to cast them out in favor of absurdism and repetitious scenes of two sewn bodies of "perfection" watch pornographic material, you'd think The Last Frankenstein would have some grand plan up its rotted sleeve. Regardless of this, which I didn't favor, The Last Frankenstein is still an utterly excellent film. Marvelously acted, weighty, and gloomy, it surely has to be seen in order to believe.

-mAQ

The Texas Chainsaw Massacre

Judging from personal experience, the best way to view Tobe Hooper's 1974 masterpiece The Texas Chainsaw Massacre is on a local television station as a morose eight year old boy next to a sleeping grandmother and with no idea what you are about to watch is a horror film. The "based on a true story" preamble was all it took to set me off guard, and over sixteen years later I'm still reeling from the stale sweat nightmare that befell a group of five youths, in particular Sally Hardesty and her invalid brother, Franklin. Much has been written about The Texas Chainsaw Massacre- how despite its title and grisly reputation, there is very little on-screen violence and almost no gore. The brilliance of the jarringly dissonant soundtrack and the incredible set design of the Sawyer family residence- akin to a house decorated by Hermann Nitsch and then left to mummify over the course of a searing Texan summer. Leatherface, Ed Gein influence, the diminishing returns of the sequels and remake and prequel to the remake. Influence on punk culture, what with the hippie killing, The Ramones' "Chainsaw", Spanish post-punkers Paralisis Permanente's immortal "Un Dia En Texas", and Leatherface buttflaps blowing in the wind of many a shopping mall parking lot.

To this, I have admittedly little to add, aside from some personal reminiscence perhaps. For years, I have longed to relive the experience of going into a movie completely blind to what it is about (if anything, considering the opening narration and the lurid title, I was expecting a 'true crime' story a la Helter Skelter or In Cold Blood and not a horror film, despite Halloween being a week away) (never one for deductive reasoning at that age, or now for that matter) and being so completely bowled over. For my money, there is no scene more gutwrenching in the annals of cinema than the scene where the hippie youth, en route to a concert, decide to accrue some good karma and pick up a hitchhiker. In the cramped confines of their van, the hitchhiker, played to sun-damaged perfection by Edwin Neal, succeeds in sufficiently unnerving the kids first with his overpowering slaughterhouse stench and then with his incredibly stunted and awkward attempts at conversation, nervously giggling and stammering through descriptions of slaughterhouse techniques and headcheese recipes from behind some very authentically filthy locks. The hippies' disgust is palpable, and the scene verges on the unbearable as you develop a sort of sympathy for the brain damaged Manson family castoff with the smudge of facial birthmark and pitiful, twitching leer trying to connect with the "normies" while simultaneously empathizing with the infinitely more relatable plight of the hippies whose initial regret about picking the guy up quickly descends into all-too-real horror.

By the time this scene came to its close, with the hitchhiker ejected from the van and smearing blood on it's door while hollering and blowing raspberries at the shrieking longhairs, I was as good as meathooked, my heart in my throat, my breath shallow, and not even a slew of commercials able to rouse me from my wide-eyed reverie. As Hooper and cinematographer Daniel Pearl took the film from the subtle menace of the roadside mirages, dead armadillos and desecrated gravesides of the opening scenes to the full blown bad trip surrealism of the dinner scene that closes the film my life was forever changed. Freddy and Jason were out and I learned to see terror not in superhuman boogeymen and dark stormy nights but in all-too-human aberration and the overbearing presence of the unforgiving summer sun. To this day I fear nothing more than a wavering horizon line, dry grass, and desolate stretches of desert, entirely a result of stumbling upon The Texas Chainsaw Massacre that night in October, 1994. And furthermore, to this day, there hasn't been a single film as harrowing, both for the unique circumstances aforementioned and because it is a singularly terrifying film- the best display of pure nightmare logic I've seen outside of maybe that scene behind the diner in Lynch's Mulholland Drive (another uniquely scarring viewing experience as I'd dozed off during watching the beginning of that particular film at two in the morning following an intense bout of studying for finals and woke up just at the beginning of the scene in question--FUCK). It never for a second lets up in terms of intensity and doesn't bother explaining itself too much but lets us experience the nightmare firsthand along with the flared pantsed human cattle (I think about the only time it lets up aside from some brief 'comic relief' concerning Grandpa's executioner skills towards the end is when Franklin bites the dust...that irritating invalid is the sole smudge on this flawless flick, and when he meets the chainsaw it's impossible not to sigh a breath of relief).

Hooper stated in interviews that the spark of inspiration for the film was childhood imaginings of vague passed along stories of necrophile/amateur taxidermist Ed Gein, and this really carries through into the final product, as it feels at times less a traditional horror film than childhood fever dreams brought to revving, gasoline-soaked life. It certainly permeated my childhood nightmares, and looking up Gein after researching the film as a kid was quite the disappointment- the banality of evil versus the sheer mindfuck Vietnam-brought-home dementia of Hooper's sole great film (the rest of his oeuvre ranging from the competent to the beguiling and terrible to the directed by Steven Spielberg)- and oh yeah, cannibalism. People eating people and stuff. That's what this one is about, I guess. Reading over what I wrote so far I realize I kinda left that out. Then again, I'm preaching to the choir, right? Surely you've seen this movie. And if you haven't, what the fuck?! It's your duty as an American, way more vital to being an American that voting, selective service, or even citizenship. This movie IS America, or something. Fuck the pledge of allegiance, pledge to show this movie to the children in your life. I pity the kid who stumbles upon one of the remakes or sequels in lieu of the real thing and thinks they have seen the stitched-together, fly-ridden face of horror. They have no idea. If you have younger siblings or impressionable youth around the house- do them a favor and give them a taste of the real thing. Tell them that it IS based on a true story and force them to sit through at least the scene in the van, at which point they should be riveted and you can retreat from the room. Then enjoy the next couple months of being woken by their cold sweat screams every time a dirtbike cruises down the block and the look of supreme unease during that family trip to the Grand Canyon.

-Jon-Christian

Tyson

Out of all Negro athletes in American history, I have always found heavyweight champion boxer Mike Tyson to be the most interesting. I would not say that I am exactly sympathetic towards Tyson’s personal struggles, but I appreciate his struggle as an urban hoodlum who was able to achieve (for better or for worse) exceptional notoriety. In the 2008 documentary Tyson directed by James Toback, Tyson gives a personal and intimate look at his turbulent life, as well as his notable boxing career. Jewish auteur James Toback has always had a glaringly odd obsession with Negro sexual potency (starting with his directorial debut Fingers) and urban thugs, so it is quite fitting that he would direct a documentary about convicted rapist Mike Tyson. While watching Tyson, it was apparent to me that James Toback was attempting present Tyson as a misunderstood individual whose reputation had been permanently blemished by unfair media portrayals, but I couldn’t help but notice that the boxer does a swell job incriminating himself in the documentary; saying things that would make most people suspect that he is a dangerous individual with an instable disposition. Of course, despite its failed attempt at presenting Mike Tyson in an angelic light, Tyson is a highly entertaining documentary worth anyone’s time.  After all, one can't help but take interest in an individual who once stated, "I want to fight, fight, fight and destruct the world."

Despite his blatant ambivalence towards whites in Tyson, Mike Tyson largely owes his success to Italian-American boxing manager and trainer Cus D’Amato; a man that provided the fatherless black youth with a father figure. In the documentary, Tyson admits that D’Amato trained him like a “slave” , thus conditioning the illiterate and impoverished boxer into the world heavyweight champion he would later become. When Cus D’Amato died in 1985 (the same year Tyson made his professional debut), Tyson was devastated. Many people have speculated that Tyson’s road to criminality and instability was a direct result of D’Amato’s death, despite the fact that Tyson starting committing crimes during early childhood. Still, it seems that D’Amato would have been able to at least control Tyson to a degree, as he was the man that “tamed the beast.” Although D’Amato speaks very lovingly of D’Amato, he does not hold back in admitting his utter contempt for former manager Don King. In Tyson, Tyson states in an agitated manner that he thought Don King was his “black brother” and that the eccentric white-afro-puff-sporting boxer manager would, “Kill his mother for a $1.00.” Tyson would later have his revenge against King (who swindled a lot of money out of the trusting boxer); beating him up at a hotel and eventually receiving around $20 million (which Tyson describes as a “small amount” of money) in court. While talking about his physical altercation with King in the documentary, Tyson mentions that “old decrepit white women” stared at him like he was a common thug, but this a minor offense when compared to Tyson’s verbal assault against a white spectator who yelled to the boxer that, “he needed to be put in a straight-jacket.” In response, Tyson elegantly retorted whilst grasping his crotch in a repellent animalistic manner, “"Put your mother in a straight-jacket you punk ass white boy. Come here and tell me that, I'll fuck you in your ass you punk white boy. You faggot. You can't touch me, you're not man enough. I'll eat your asshole alive, you bitch. C'mon anybody in here can't fuck with this. This is the ultimate, man. Fuck you, you ho. Come and say it to my face.... I'll fuck you in the ass in front of everybody. You bitch.... come on, you bitch. You're scared coward, you're not man enough to fuck with me. You can't last two minutes in my world, bitch. Look at you scared now, you ho.... scared like a little white pussy. Scared of the real man. I'll fuck you 'til you love me, faggot!" Although this incident is featured in Toback’s Tyson, many other controversial incidents are ignored in the documentary (after all, it is only 90 minutes in length).  Despite the homoerotic overtones of his emotional tirade against the white heckler, Tyson said the following about his sex life, "I may like fornicating more than other people. It's just who I am. I sacrifice so much of my life, can I at least get laid? Know what I mean? I been robbed of most of my money, can I at least get a blow job?" 

In Tyson, Mike Tyson also discusses his rape conviction and prison sentence(s). In 1991, Tyson was arrested for the rape of 18-year old Miss Black Rhode Island Desiree Washington. As he mentions in the documentary, Tyson denies to this day ever raping Washington. In Tyson, Tyson describes Washington as a “wretched woman” and blames her for causing him to lose his humanity. Despite claiming his innocence in regards to the rape of Desiree Washington, Tyson freely admits that he has abused women in the past. The boxer also bashes his ex-wife Robin Givens due to an episode during their marriage where she attacked Tyson on live television. In a clip featured in Tyson, Givens describes Tyson (who is sitting right next to her) as a “maniac depressive” who turned her life into a “pure hell.” While Givens is bashing Tyson on television, he sits speechless with a blank stare, as if everything his ex-wife is saying is going straight over his head (which it probably was).  During the documentary, Tyson - in an unintentionally hilarious (like many parts of the film) moment in the film - describes what qualities he looks for in an ideal woman. Apparently, Tyson likes strong and intelligent women (like CEOs) that he can “sexually dominant.” Considering Tyson’s father abandoned his family when the boxer was a youngster and his mother died when he was 16, it is no surprised that the former heavyweight champion is quite dysfunctional when it comes to family matters. As Tyson explains in Tyson, one of his daughters is on her way to college and he hopes to provide his younger children with the same opportunities; no doubt many gigantic steps away from his impoverished upbringing. 

 

 Pigeon-Thug-Luv

Tyson director James Toback with Mike Tyson and his children

At the conclusion of Tyson, Mike Tyson states regarding the public's perception of him, “You can judge me, but never can understand me.”  I, for one, can find no common ground with Tyson. After all, I certainly cannot relate to a peculiar black man who went from being an impoverished criminal youth to a internationally renowned boxing champion that inevitably fell from grace. In the documentary, Tyson explains that it is a miracle that he lived long enough to be 40 years old, hence why he intemperately blows all of his money (which he describes as “paper blood”) and has met bankruptcy despite his millionaire status. Even with fame and fortune, Tyson managed to serve multiple prison sentences. To show his disgust with the United States government (or at least that is what he says), Tyson got two tattoos of communist revolutionary figures (Mao and Che Guevara), as well as the infamous tribal (apparently modeled after an ancient primitive warrior tribe) tattoo that so crudely covers the side of his face. After biting a piece of Evander Holyfield’s ear off during their second much anticipated rival boxing match (dubbed "The Sound and The Fury"), Tyson went home and smoked some weed and drank some liquor as a way to relax. I believe that the manner in which Tyson dealt with the Holyfield ordeal it very symbolic of his character – as it shows that he is an emotionally unstable man whose struggles just to reach an equilibrium in mood. I think of Mike Tyson as a real-life (and black) Terry Malloy (Marlon Brando’s character from Elia Kazan’s 1954 On the Waterfront) – as both boxers became entangled as pawns in a corrupt industry that neither could understand. Like Malloy, Tyson also has a strange fetish for pigeons. Although Tyson’s boxing career is pretty much over, his legacy will indubitably live on.  During  Tyson, Mike Tyson unexpectedly recites a poem by Oscar Wilde; which sounds somewhat normal considering the boxer’s unfitting high-pitch voice and lisp. In a way (as his various hilarious quotes attest to), Mike Tyson is an illiterate street poet whose brutal poetic punches and verbal barbarism will go to inspire many generations of black youth to come. After all, Mike Tyson has achieved (and somewhat lost) the seemingly impossible (for someone of his less than privileged background) by obtaining the much desired American dream. After watching James Toback’s Tyson, my opinion of Tyson has not changed, yet I highly recommend the documentary as it is certainly better than a typical Hollywood bio-pic.  I will end this review with these words of wisdom from Mike Tyson regarding his way of dealing with tragedy,"I don't react to a tragic happening any more. I took so many bad things as a kid and some people think I don't care about anything. It's just too hard for me to get emotional. I can't cry no more."

-Ty E

Ruthless Revenge

As I had explained on the Soiled Sinema facebook, I received a tip that led me to a thrift shop up the road with a large handful of martial arts films. Among these rare Ocean Shores Video Limited tapes was Ruthless Revenge (1979). Boasting wild cover art of two extraordinarily goofy gentlemen trading blows with a bearded fellow, I decided that Ruthless Revenge would be the first of the many to set sights towards. Also known as Invincible Kung Fu and The Two Tricky Kids, Ruthless Revenge passively employs physical farce much akin to The Three Stooges which lightens the action and makes for a truly enjoyable motion picture. In the opening, a drunken fool pickpockets a student of kung fu aboard a ferry. Transplanting his funds into the pocket of another martial artist, the drunken "wizard" knowingly orchestrates a burning rivalry between the two that persists even ashore. Once there, these two "masters" ("Bruce" Leung of Kung Fu Hustle fame and Kwok Choi Hon) compete in a ridiculous sparring match in which one trumps the other on a basis of turns. Bruce Leung's secret weapon is a weathered book detailing forms and styles of martial arts dependent on kicks and Kwok Choi Hon's previous master taught him the strengths of fist combat. This sets a handicap for each other to duel endlessly as they are equally skilled. Only when the two squabbling masters come together can they overcome a greater enemy.

After this primary round of sparring meets its end, the two are offered their own "kwoon" - school of kung fu. With both buildings positioned adjacent to each other, a line is drawn in between, separating the buildings and the teachings. When a local criminal leader discovers that the two kung fu masters seek to move in onto his territory he sends groups of thugs to straighten them out. Bouncing between the territories marked before the buildings, the two masters slap and reduce their enemies into pulp, all the while deploring one another with obscene insults. It is this intense slapstick that makes the comedy so effective in Ruthless Revenge; not even just the incredible choreography which features the two men vying for a particular item in a juggling-like fashion but the general insults slung at each other. The two on-screen persona's that endlessly bicker create such a wild world for the kung fu shenanigans to take place within. After defeating the local lord, help is sent for and the two masters are made homeless by the lord's elder relative. Only the help of the drunken master responsible for their conflict of interests can aid them in defeating their new enemy. And so is the plot of Ruthless Revenge - quite a product of narcissistic escapism. Mindless fun is the only thing to be had here so anyone expecting the flair of other Oriental productions such as Shaolin & Wu Tang might want to explore other venues of complicit Chinese design. Ruthless Revenge even ends on such a ridiculous and compelling note as getting slapped on the wrist and sent home empty handed.

I have mentioned before the seemingly cold remove of the Asiatics towards domesticated creatures. Not quite cattle nor slaughterhouse material; the Eastern continents have no problem grievously harming creatures on camera for, in this case, HK authenticity. A very similar case would be Men Behind the Sun or even Don't Play With Fire - both feature cruelty to felines, although, in Men Behind the Sun's case, we witness the death of the cat, whereas in Don't Play With Fire, a cat is simply tossed out of a high window. I bring this up because Ruthless Revenge unspools a similarly petrifying scene of unfortunate injury to a domestic cat. The scene suddenly came out of left field. Here I was, enjoying a kung fu farce that is obscenely simplistic when, all of a sudden, my American sensibilities were challenged when, to prove a point, a drunkard thrusts a cat in a cramped cage with an irritated goose and snake. Despite being tonally thrashed during the climax of said scene, Ruthless Revenge remains an oft-hilarious excursion in slapstick and creative combat. Even for being cast adrift chink tropes, Ruthless Revenge was quite endearing to me, even if it ended on such a sudden cue that you're left blinking in disbelief. Way to force morality upon enthusiasts and students of an ancient art.

-mAQ

The Funeral

Although I rather enjoy mafia films, I have always been bothered by the lack of thematic diversity in the genre. Sure, most wop and Judaic mafia men are barbaric psychopaths that will kill just about anyone to make an extra buck, yet one would think that there would be more diversity of dago characters in such colorful and moral-free cinematic works. Admittedly, I loved the HBO series The Sopranos due to its more intimate and family oriented look at New Jersey's finest goombah thugs, but, unfortunately, the show was canceled years ago. A couple days ago, I finally got around to seeing Abel Ferrara’s The Funeral (1996) – an excellent mafia flick that is like no other – breaking all the conventions and stereotypes so closely associated with the extremely formulaic genre.  What better auteur than Abel Ferrara to direct one of the grittiest and darkest mafia films ever made?  In The Funeral, Ferrara does for the mafia what he did for corrupt cops in Bad Lieutenant (1992). Proving his undeniable integrity as a serious filmmaker; Ferrara refrained from glorifying and romanticizing the organized crime life, and instead deconstructs the genre; portraying the mafia brothers during their weakest and most pathetic moments. Like many characters featured in works directed by Abel Ferrara, the Ginzo Bros. featured in The Funeral are plagued with Catholic guilt.  Throughout The Funeral, the anti-hero mafia brothers are shown at their most vulnerable times of guilt and impotent moments of self doubt, but also during moment sof  domineering brutality. The three “Tempio” mafia brothers are as follows: Eldest brother Raimundo aka “Ray”(played by Christopher Walken), middle brother Cesarino aka “Chez” (played by Chris Penn), and baby brother Giovanni aka Johnny (played by Vincent Gallo).  After brother Johnny dies, the two remaining brothers look towards redemption whilst recollecting over their brutal and blatantly blasphemous lives.  At one point, Ray even acknowledges that he is destined for hell.  At the most fundamental level, The Funeral boldly asks

hard questions regarding immorality that most previous mafia films refused to even acknowledge.

Despite being blood brothers, the three Tempio boys are quite contrary in character, consequently resulting in constant family feuds among the brothers. Alpha-Mafioso Ray - who is the strongest and most intelligent of the brothers – clearly runs and holds the crime family together. Overweight Chez is a loose cannon of sorts and is easily the most deranged of the brothers, which is no surprise as the middle child usually tends to be the craziest. Due to his explicitly erratic performance as Chez in The Funeral, Chris Penn deservedly won Best Supporting Actor at the 2006 Venice Film Festival. However, the strangest and most individualistically peculiar of the brothers is Johnny – a communist whose political idealism is glaringly detrimental to the family business. As indicated in the title of the film, The Funeral begins with the funeral of recently murdered Johnny, thereupon the rest of the film unravels the mystery behind his dubious death. I must admit that seeing Vincent Gallo (who is one of my favorite actors) laying in a coffin was something I found to be unintentionally humorous. Proving their true brotherly loyalty to Johnny; Ray and Chez proceed (albeit in totally different ways) to avenge their little brother's untimely death. After the introductory funeral scene, The Funeral cuts back to the past, unfolding what led to Johnny’s death in the first place. It becomes clear that Johnny was bound to end up six foot under (as his brother Ray acknowledges to him as he lays dead in the coffin) – as he gave his brothers much grief due to his unruly behavior, on top of making numerous enemies due to his narcissistic and idealistic demeanor. Of course, the film eventually zooms back to the present, as Ray finds out who murdered his baby brother. At the tragic conclusion of The Funeral, all three brothers are finally vindicated of their family demons.

 The Funeral is the ultimate anti-mafia film, as it creatively breaks every convention of the genre, thus reinventing the entire genre in the process.  In fact, I would go as far as saying that The Funeral is "The Man Who Shot Liberty Valance (1962) of mafia films" - as both films are quite anarchistic in their defiance against the conventions of their respective genres.  Personally, I have always wondered about the guilt and psychological insanity one must suffer as a mass-murdering career criminal, yet very few mafia films even begin to portray such serious, yet ultimately anti-romantic scenarios. Although the three brothers featured in The Funeral are exposed in the most unflattering of lights; the film also gives these characters a certain humanity that is often times lacking in the genre. The almost mystical stoicism that is so typical of characters in mafia films is destroyed in the best sense in The Funeral; a wonderful greaseball tragedy about a family that is genetically cursed. In fact, the source of the family curse is exposed in the film during a very stark and telling scene that signifies the loss of innocence among the three brothers. In this key scene, a flashback shows the three brothers as children under the corrupt guidance of their mafia thug father; a psychopathic delinquent who forces young Ray to shoot and kill a helpless man that is tied to a chair. After that life changing dark day (both figuratively and metaphorically), the three brothers have continuously suffered from the crimes of their father, thus inheriting his sins and maintaining his severely tainted legacy of criminality. All three men have their own way of coping with their hidden suffering: Johnny becomes a true believer in the Marxist internationalist working-class utopia dream, Chez is less stable in his suffering; outlandishly abusing women (accusing them of "selling their souls") in a feeble attempt to expel his inter self-hatred, and Roy stoically hides his suffering, until he confronts the young man that killed his younger brother. By the end of The Funeral, all three brothers meet their peace, henceforth leaving their already broken female companions to carry the burden, but isn’t that what families are for?

-Ty E

Long Pigs

Collecting buzz during certain festivals and garnering a heap of awards, Long Pigs is a "mockumentary" fit to the design of Man Bites Dog, directed by two amateur filmmakers, Chris Power and Nathan Hynes. Following a cannibal during many of his exploits, not much is known about the characters within the film other than what is supplied over the course of dialog. The two hopeful documentarians created this "found footage" we have before us. Supplementing not just casual shadow to the serial killer but also interviews with members of the police force, families of Anthony McAlistar's victims, and the ramblings of a radio jockey, Long Pigs is an independent Canadian horror film that stretches what low-budget found footage has to offer. Throughout the runtime, Long Pigs makes it very apparent that the brain-trust isn't within the gore but the interactions with the characters and the ending that we all foresee coming. In fact, the scenes of violence we're gifted with are anything but exploitative, rather, short and shocking. One scene that comes to mind is Anthony's slinging of a victim and demonstrating the "Gein configuration" that was also graphically utilized in Marian Dora's Cannibal. A time lapsed dissection of a hanging corpse is set to The Nutcracker Suite, a poor choice of music that only hampers the effect of butchery and is one of the few drawbacks of Long Pigs that can't be attested to budgetary restraints. 

As a recurring theme in films favoring cannibalism as an arch, Long Pigs' Anthony McAlistar too realizes the accessible whore being the easiest form of cuisine, especially with time being not of luxury. This was also given a degree of insight in the recent Mexican cannibal film - We Are What We Are. As with that same film, Long Pigs digresses the art of selection with victims that aren't exactly a high point of society, sans the little girl who was abducted prior. After picking up a hefty heifer off the street corner, the talk radio host chimes in with his two cents concerning the rash of vanishing prostitutes. Going in Long Pigs, you can toss your Pretty Woman dreams out the window as there is no classy whores to be found within. Although not the topic nor main prey of the film, there are enough connotations behind Anthony's cleaning of the streets to guarantee a reaction from whiny articulate women. Again pleasuring the genre of documentary, we're given plenty of face time from Anthony McAlistar while he discusses the politics of cannibalism, bringing up many insightful arguments. What is consistent with culinary arts and the psychological reaction to self-prepared dishes is that they always taste better created with your own hands. Would this not remain constant with the product of cooking human flesh? The hunger they feel isn't too inhuman, is it?

Long Pigs may be the biggest independent surprise I've experienced in quite some time. The acting is exemplary and the filmmaking style, although cheap and cost-effective, benefits the overall tone of this dark and lurid comedy. The cannibalistic musings of our lead topic outperform most other films that attend to this "found footage" trend that has began popping up recently in various corners of horror. Inspired by select segments from Faces of Death and Man Bites Dog, Long Pigs is a healthy dose of slaughter and drama, stripped of artistry but with the inclusion of a wonderful character actor. Intelligent and barbaric to boot, this is pseudo-snuff done correctly - an inspired sketch for other filmmakers to take pointers from. If anything deserves to be critical upon, it would be the admittance of various other forms of storytelling, namely the random personalities being interviewed. While necessary, it causes the pacing of Long Pigs to collect and temporarily halt the process of progress. As is, this macabre tale of a cannibal in hiding, seething above the city streets, a sociable chameleon, is a wonderful work of low budget horror filmmaking and is worthy of most praise it may receive. What makes this film even better is the addition of beef jerky with a limited pressing of the DVD. A modern example of creativity boosting a product.

-mAQ

Scream 4

I've caught wind of idle banter dissenting the Scream franchise recently. You won't find Craven's brand of fandom on my person but I know better than to make such groundless accusations claiming Scream "killed the slasher genre." Strong, spiteful words for such a spineless parade venturing away from popular opinion. In order to comprehend the slasher genre, one needn't wrack ones brain to discuss the finer merits. As humbly noted in Scream 4, the slasher began, as an idea, moreover an example, with Michael Powell's Peeping Tom and Hitchcock's Psycho and was later mutated with help from Mario Bava's Twitch of the Death Nerve, arguably the most influential film of the genre. What Mario Bava stoked was an ember of a slasher renaissance that would explode the following decade. Reducing art and applying bloodshed is hardly a fitting form to follow; no big brothers to speak of that don't insist on stalk and kill. Sure, there are gems but even the most unconventional distractions to the slasher film remain hampered by its limited mentality. Perhaps this was Wes Craven's modus operandi to lampoon the slasher genre with his humorous and grim take on teenage psychopathy. Once being a professor in humanities, Wes Craven has indulged himself a spotty career. You could unctuously compare Wes Craven to be that of an American Takashi Miike, whose cinematic endeavors are more likely to be shit than gold. Take last year's horror dead-weight My Soul to Take 3D and enjoy refuting my opinion aloud. Back on topic of the Scream franchise, one thing is consistent in every film - no deadpan delivery of mystery. Ideas can be tossed around, fingers pointed, and speculations rising but when it comes down to it the only thing you can do is sit, stare, and wait patiently. Scream 4 is certainly no exception to this rule of horror and suspense.

With the origins of Scream secured, to continue the canon of stabbing horror would be to continue with the classic cast utilizing the slogan "New decade, new rules". This can attest to Halloween H20 and Halloween: Resurrection, as well as Wes Craven's New Nightmare - basically the effects of the new millennium and the necessary evolution of convolution. What Craven prods at is so unrighteously defended, downtrodden with red excess and a continuing chase to cap last year's inventions in slaughter. This creates one hell of a cliche pile-up. Scream 4 had worlds to make up to, especially after the barbaric sequel Scream 3 - a film so forgettable that I often excuse flashbacks to Scream 2 as Scream 3. Could it be my subconscious battling to forgive and to leave one of Craven's many errors in hindsight? Scream 4 is so preciously wrapped in its satire that to bear a review without the supplied terms "meta" or "tropes" would be to turn cheek to the obvious and if there is one thing I am not, it is oblivious. Scream 4 is crafted as a reboot of the franchise, aimed down the sights at our current gen-X'rs whose horror dangles on the lines of such fodder as The Roommate or Prom Night. It's a tell-all tale of an original cast up to new tricks. This wouldn't be my first time experiencing a similar occasion on film. You could even consider it momentous. A classic line in Scream 4 - "Don't fuck with the originals!". This very same move was made by a blaxploitation picture years earlier. Pardon my train-of-thought taking a detour but I consider Original Gangstas to be an important piece that takes the early innovators of soul power and militancy and aggressively deploys them against their younger incarnates. This is the same chess play that Craven's appointed message of horror used within Scream 4.

All is not well in the infamous town of Woodsboro, whose white picket fences of fiction have harbored countless slayings and serial killers. Filling the need of a capable cinema mind, Scream 4 introduces two cinephiles, thus replacing the need for the previous character of Randy who was tragically killed in the second Scream. One of these characters is even portrayed by a Culkin which adds a field of depth to his suave stature towards film. Returning are the three originals, Sidney Prescott, Gale Weathers, and Dewey Riley. Ten years after the events of Scream 3, Sidney Prescott returns to her quiet hometown on the last stop of her book tour when the murders begin again. With a bevy of beautiful babes, Scream 4 begs for nudity, as well as one of the chief characters, but in good faith, is never delivered. Self-referential to an extreme degree, Scream 4 is a charming sequel, reflexive with its stabs at the Saw franchise and the rise of "torture porn". Craven indeed points and laugh at the current status of horror and in the process, compiles ten years of brainstorming to put a wonderful close(?) to a trilogy because, as we all know, horror pounds past thrice now. The plot of Scream 4 isn't what is so important. Constructed in a formula similar to mad-lib with a camera, I can remind you of every vengeance-ridden plot of slashers past and you can put the pieces together. No, what is important about Scream 4 is how dedicated it is to its trend of trope-smashing while retaining a great deal of violence and humor. For the record, I am also quite partial to this installment as Bruce Willis is referenced and that right there guarantees a reaction out of me. 

Opening on a note similar to a game of catch and release, Stab 6 & 7 are looped through whichever dimension being dominant to the canon. Scream 4's opening retreats from a film within a film to a film within a film within, etc. Craven reassures you that he has still paid close mind to the topic at hand. While reprising favor to the original Scream, I also have to add that the first sequel tends to the still-open wounds of the characters. Scream 4 plays medic as well, though I found the lack of Dewey's limp to be disturbing. I suppose physiotherapy could have played a hand in this, as many interpretations suggest. In Scream 4, Craven expands his influences and references. Not just Halloween, Friday the 13th, and Nightmare on Elm Street but Suspiria, Don't Look Now, and the aforementioned Psycho and Peeping Tom. With the broadening of references, Scream 4 also opens doors to new delights and is essentially a remake of the first film with familiarity playing a large role in collecting similar sentiments. This aspect of the film finds Sidney, not experiencing post-traumatic stress but a new woman. No love life here to contemplate guilt towards due to ever-lasting suspicion, Sidney Prescott is reborn. Same goes for Dewey's physical handicap. It has vanished, along with his bumbling rookie nature. Gale Weathers even seems to foster much more "humanity" than before. Scream 4 is essentially a redoing of previous events, which in a strange way, casts out a copycat killer and authenticates the crimes to a formidable foe. To further the surprise, Scream 4's final moments take place in a hospital - a move that many horror films employ. There is something terrifying about a place that promotes both sterility and malaise. Not much of a review but an overview - I simply speak to alert anyone with doubt that the integrity of the Scream franchise is safeguarded by the fourth installment. 

-mAQ